


Fruitcake and Brandy

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Fate/Beautiful Forest Hobo [8]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas Fluff, Churches & Cathedrals, Cooking, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, idk what bond robin this is and i dont care theyre in love thats all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: Some things just don't change.A Christmas piece.
Relationships: Fujimaru Ritsuka/Robin Hood | Archer
Series: Fate/Beautiful Forest Hobo [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1441663
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Fruitcake and Brandy

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa and Happy Holidays! I won't be making a New Years' fic, though I did think about it! This was surprisingly difficult for me to put together, despite having the general idea down pat!
> 
> I did get my Robin Hood back after all, and he's np5, so I'm definitely blessed to have him home again! I wish you all a blessed holiday and happy new year, and I hope you have luck in your rolls, especially if you're rolling for Ereshkigal in these final days!

_O Holy night,_

A lone archer in the high perch of a tree was nothing but a spec in the pretty picture that was Advent, the citizens of the village below pulling out all the stops to celebrate the holiday. A priest was ushering the poor and homeless into the well-lit halls of their abbeys to feed them a more abundant feast than they were used to. 

_The stars are brightly shi-ning,_

He pulled his cloak a bit closer to his person. Snow was starting to fall, and even though it was no more than a rag woven with a little magic and love, it kept him pretty warm. A little sigh escaped him, a cloud of his breath visible in the freezing cold, and he decided suddenly that he’d like something warm to drink.

_It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth._

Once he entered the church, he shook the remnants of freshly fallen snow off of his hood; careful not to activate its cloaking properties, he sniffed and took in a deep breath of the warm, still air before heading to the back, no doubt where food was being served. 

_Long lay the world,_

It was pretty packed. He had no idea there were so many poor and homeless people around- ah. No, that wasn’t right. There were a great deal of people who at least had homes and were eating along with those who had nothing, talking and laughing as though there was no disparity between them, no class, no race, no religion. Just a nice, warm meal in a church. 

_In sin and error pi-ning,_

“Hey. It’s your turn.” 

_‘Til he appeared, and the soul felt its worth-_

“Hm?” He’d almost forgotten he was standing in line for some of that food. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Ain’t a problem,” came the answer. “We’ve all got a lot on our minds. Good thing we know someone’s lookin out for us, huh?” A gesture to the cross near the far end of the room.

For a moment, the archer didn’t know how to answer. There were a great many things that he’d asked God for, a great many things that had never been answered or even acknowledged, and he wondered, with every rising and setting sun, if He existed at all. 

“Yeah.” The archer decided. “It is.”

_O night,_

It tasted like christmas cake. A cup of coffee and christmas cake, full of dried fruit, brandy, and a _little_ bit of love to make it taste _just_ right. That was Christmas. Even if tomorrow, when some of those people left and never returned because of pride, they’d have christmas cake in their memories. 

“Excuse me. Young man?”

_Divine-_

A part of the cake on his fork was halfway in his mouth when he looked up, his vision only partially obstructed by his peek-a-boo bang; one of the priests in the abbey had apparently spotted him and was probably going to offer him a place to stay the night, so he said, “Yeah?” Already he was deciding on a way to say ‘no’. A way to decline, respectfully, and wish him a blessed night.

“May I speak with you? In a quieter area.”

Shady. Though he wasn’t one to distrust the priesthood, he knew that even priests sometimes were capable of murder, and his time as Robin Hood wasn’t quite done yet. “Sure, Father.”

It wasn’t quite outside, but it was a great deal cooler than the inside of the soup kitchen; the long hallway was empty except for the archer and the priest, who entered afterward and closed the door behind them both. Without any delays, the priest said, “Take this,” before pressing something of moderate weight into the palm of the archer’s hand.

“This-” A small bag of coins, just enough for a few days’ worth of supplies and food. A bit of surprise danced in his eyes; when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “Listen, Father, I’m sure there’s plenty of other people who need this-”

“Not as much as you. And I won’t take no for an answer.” The priest nodded. He was an aging fellow, with rounded spectacles sliding partway down his nose and white hair thinning on top but not at the sides of his head. “It’s from all of us. For what you’ve done, Robin Hood.”

The archer grimaced. “You’ve got the wrong-”

“Take it.” The priest insisted. “And there’s a place for you to stay, if you need to rest the night. Come,” he gestured, and the archer knew he needed to follow. Sure enough, they stopped just down the hallway, where the priest carefully revealed a rather nice vacant room, complete with a cot and an easy escape window. 

Protests built in the back of his throat. The gut wrenching feeling in his stomach made him wonder what this priest knew, who’d told, or if he was simply extending good will to another homeless man, but he knew that if he said no, it would be even more suspicious. 

“...thank you,” Robin Hood decided. It’d be stupid to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Of course. It’s a little better than a stable, so I thought it would be alright.” The priest winked, and the archer couldn’t help but smile.

_O night divine._

* * *

That had been his last Christmas. More accurately, it was the last Christmas “Robin Hood” had experienced; though there were several legends of “Robin Hood”, his incarnation had memories that were less like legends and more like small, unnoticable dents in a notch that was a long line of rebels (and at times, actual bandits) that had taken on the mantle of Robin Hood. Still, being in Chaldea made many of those things conflate, which was why he was surprised to have recalled that night when Ifumi Rockwell- the last living Master- said, “It’s time for Christmas!!!!!” in a voice that reminded him of a child waking her parents early to see if St. Nicholas had come. 

Dozens of Servants- and some part of what was left of the staff- were already decorating some of the hallways and a tree was being set up in the middle of one of the common rooms. In a similar fashion, holidays that either occurred at the same time- and even afterwards- took up space in halls, tables, and even the ceiling. One couldn’t tell what holiday was when, but everyone knew they’d be getting a feast, so it was largely peaceful for once.

Robin Hood was in the kitchen, as Master had so plainly “forced” him to come help her decide on what dish to make. In fact, she went to far as to ask, “What are you going to make?”

He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, the sleeves of his long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows in case she made him cook too. “I have to _make_ something? Sheesh, you’re a slave driver.”

“I am not!” She protested, her nose wrinkling the freckles across it, the dark skin of her cheeks puffing out to make her face look even rounder and more childish than it was. “I’m just saying! I was going to make either peach cobbler or bread pudding, but you listed your special skill as ‘cooking’, so I was just curious.”

“Just because I _can_ doesn’t mean I will,” he whistled. 

“You never want to do anything.” She nudged him playfully, and he smiled behind his cup. “Unless I ask.”

“You _are_ the boss,” he hummed, and she slapped his arm. “Ouch. Oof, someone hasn’t been slackin’ on her training. I’m impressed.”

“Hmph.” When she walked around him, it was to make a beeline to the fridge to check what they had in stock; after rummaging about for a bit, she asked, “What do you want to eat? As far as desserts, I mean.”

Robin Hood watched her figure from behind for a moment; he considered saying ‘cake’ since she seemed to have that in stock, but it reminded him that having coffee without sweets was sort of lackluster. “Christmas cake.”

“What?” Ifumi straightened her back and turned to look at him. “Christmas cake? Which...what kind of christmas cake?”

Oh, right. Cultural differences. “It’s like…” What other names did it go by? “Fruitcake,” he snapped his fingers, and then his eyes roamed the ceiling, thinking about a recipe he had in mind. “Little late in the year to start on it now, though.” Usually it had to set for about two months for it to properly “mature”, right? Or at least, that was how he’d learned how to make it. 

“...oh. Fruitcake.” She rubbed her chin. “Fruitcake...I’ve never made fruitcake before. I’ve made bread pudding, though…” Then she started muttering to herself. “I’ll see what I can do?”

He tried not to smile. No doubt she had no clue what she was doing, so he let out a rather exasperated sigh and said, “Look, don’t get obsessed with it, I’ll help. You yankees make it wrong anyways.”

She scuttled over from the fridge to hip-check him. “Very funny. You have a recipe for me or do I have to call Merlin for some internet?”

Robin grimaced. “Ugh, no, that guy sucks. I’ve got one, I’ve got one. I’ll just start grabbin’ stuff and you get the measuring cups.”

It doesn’t taste like back then. It’s too fresh, too new, too uncomfortably warm. Flour on the counters and some in his hair, he realizes it’s probably a lot messier than making fruitcake usually is, unfamiliar and different but not wrong. Not bad.

“There won’t be enough brandy in it,” he finds himself griping. “You’re supposed to pour some over it every two weeks…”

“We _could_ always drink brandy straight from the bottle?” Ifumi offered, shaking it to let the liquid slosh around near his ear until he plucked it from her hands.

“Where’d you get this?” Then, he amended, “Y’know, I don’t wanna know. You’re right, it’s Christmas, let’s get _sloshed_!”

Ifumi clapped her hands. “Yay! Fruitcake and brandy!”

“Fruitcake and brandy,” he smiled. “C’mon, let’s share this with some others.” He took a swig of the brandy straight from the bottle and then passed it to her. “Gonna wanna get a little tipsy for it.” They’d probably talk about how they’d done it wrong, but that was okay. 

“Wait!” Ifumi shouted, and, though she took the bottle of brandy from him, she scurried back into the kitchen to grab something from the cabinets in the kitchen. When she scurried up to him, she pressed a medium-sized bag into his palm.

He stared at the bag for a few moments, gently weighing the contents in his palm. Chocolate coins. 

“We should drop these in the stockings on the way,” she told him, grabbing a bag to put the rest of the chocolate coin pouches in. “The kids are probably looking forward to them.”

Done wrong but in the right way. He shifted the coins around in one hand, nodding a tiny bit to himself as he slipped them into his pocket. “Leave it to you to talk about brandy and then kids...you’re stressing me out, Master.”

“Isn’t that just how most adults talk?”

“Most adults don’t drink before going to see kids!” He complained.

“That sounds like a you problem.” But she grinned and took the cake from him. “Grab the plates. This is going to be a loooong delivery. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you sober enough to read to the kids while I sneak the coins in their stockings.”

“Oh, so it’s _that_ kind of delivery,” he coughed. “Better hurry up, then. Santa’s gonna want her reindeer soon.” Some traditions never changed, and Ifumi being drafted as “Santa’s Cutest Reindeer” didn’t seem to be changing any time soon.

New traditions. Good traditions. Chaldea sure was an interesting place, huh?

“ _You_ hurry!” She stomped in front of him. “ _You’re_ the one lagging behind!”

“Yes, ma’am!” He replied, smiling a little to himself- then he took another swig of brandy, grabbed the paper plates, and raced after her. 


End file.
